Sunday, February 04, 2007
Say I
I can mark the moment I started caring about football, because it was a pivotal one in my life. I was at Packard's, this bar in Northampton, giving my boyfriend Benzo all sorts of shit about not taking me out to breakfast on Sunday mornings during football season, and I said, "I don't understand the point of football. Isn't it just a bunch of fat dudes running into each other?"
"Razzy," he said patiently, trying for the thousandth time to compel me to lay off his ass about his Sundays being dedicated to the NFL instead of his hot blonde shikse girlfriend. "Football is like chess. I don't think you understand football."
"What's to understand?" I scoffed. "The most basic play involves dudes butting heads like a bunch of fucking mountain goats posturing for sexual dominance. Don't care."
"You're wrong," he said. "The most basic play is the I formation. Well, not in the West Coast offense, but for all intents and purposes, let's say it's the I formation, and let me explain it to you."
I humored him, expecting to find some inherent flaw and be able to be right on the fact that I can deconstruct almost anything on the fourfold basis of my harsh criticisms, my forceful personality, my tits, and my willingness to put out. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen. Then Benzo not only proved me wrong, he changed my life.
By the time he'd finished with the I formation, he also went through the shotgun, a variety of draw, screen, and slant plays, some basic defensive packages, and classic gimmick plays such as the flea-flicker and the hook-and-ladder. I was enthralled, and had completely forgotten about being right or complaining about his non-availability for Sunday brunch. I resolved to start watching football immediately, because not only was I wrong about it being stupid, I was deeply intrigued.
That was in December 1999, and I proceeded to not only watch all the playoffs, but damn near had a massive coronary during the Super Bowl the next January. In case you aren't up on your stats, that was Super Bowl XXXIV, in which the Tennessee Titans lost by one struggling, Kevin Dyson's-desperately-reaching yard to the St. Louis Rams. Dick Vermeil cried with joy. Steve McNair shook his head with deep sadness (as well as pain from his typical 18 different injuries). I swore vengeance against the Rams, and pledged my life and soul to Eddie George (with a clause allowing revocation of said pledge if he ever signed with the Cowboys, that I exercised in 2004).
Since then, I have become progressively more and more obsessed with NFL football. Now I do things like I did tonight: go to Super Bowl parties and impress the dudes there with my knowledge. Miss Corbutt's boyfriend, who invited me and my friends to his party, heard me trying to explain to Miss Corbutt the awesomeness of the Coors Light "Playoffs?!" commercial and going off on a tangent about the ins and outs of Jim Mora, Sr.'s illustrious press conference record, NFL head coaching politics, and family playing/coaching dynasties, and said, "Wow...you really ARE hard core."
Miss Corbutt had initially lured me to this party on the basis that there was a free buffet of fried foods, she would be there, there would be lots of "single Amherst guys" (been there and did that...in 1997), and there were many plasma screens to watch the game on. I enjoyed the fact that I was the resident girl who knows about football much more than the prospect of me doing a bunch of I-bankers from the underground DEKE house at Amherst. On account of the night before and the lethal tequila-Jaegermeister-scotch-gin-vodka-beer combo I'd imbibed, I was glad to be kicking ass at anything, so it was excellent to be a lauded-for-knowing-football bitch at a Super Bowl party.
I was rooting for the Bears, because I hate and despise the Colts, and I will until I die. I hate them even more than the Cowboys. They were the team I hated most until the Shitsburgh Stealers gave me a personal reason to hate them more, but nonetheless my anti-Colts sentiments remain true and unmitigated. This is partly because they are the Titans' AFC South rivals, and partly because I loathe Peyton and all other Mannings to the core of my being. However, since the officiating in this Super Bowl was considerably better than last year's bullshit travesty, and since the Bears basically didn't get a goddamn thing going offensively, by the end of the third quarter I accepted that I'd simply have to suffer through another year of Peyton Manning being an incorrigible asshole bolstered by a Super Bowl ring. So I went to take a piss.
There were these girls there who were decked out in head-to-toe Bears gear waiting in the bathroom line. I pegged them as serious fans, as they were wearing Bears caps, NFC champion shirts, Bears armbands, and logo orange-and-navy C's on their cheeks. I decided to be friendly and share my sympathies.
"Dudes, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a Seahawks fan, so I know how you feel. I was right where you are last year, getting dangerously close to a fugue state."
They gave me this weird, extraordinarily puzzled look that indicated I should elaborate.
"I mean, last year, I knew that the Hawks were done by this time in the game. Of course then it was because of bullshit offensive pass interference calls and ignored horse collar tackles and not the straight-up inability of Rex Grossman to convert third downs, but still, I feel you."
"Oh..." The head girl suddenly got where I was coming from. "We're not really Bears fans, hon. We just like dressing up."
"Um..." I said.
"Yeah," her friend chimed in. "We called the Chicago Sports Authority and had them FedEx us these Cubs temporary tattoos!"
She pointed proudly to the C on her face. I didn't mean to be an asshole, but I couldn't help it.
"Uh, I think you mean the Bears. The Cubs are a baseball team," I said as kindly as I could.
She and her friend gave each other a what-the-fuck-is-up-with-this-bitch?-there-are-hedge-fund-owners-to-hit-on-here look.
"Whatever!" she said cheerfully, and went back to chatting about the boys they liked. Mercifully the bathroom became available at that moment. While I was pissing, I wondered what those girls would do if I forced their "Cubs"-fan asses to check out an I formation and appreciate the depth of the culture they are appropriating for frivolous dress-up. Probably think I'm even more bizarre than they already do, but I wished I could do it nonetheless. In a perfect world, it would change their lives for the better, as Benzo's Xs and Os (and not just his kisses and hugs) once changed mine. Then again, in a perfect world, the Stealers wouldn't be sitting around reminiscing about how they stole last year's Super Bowl, and Peyton Manning wouldn't be spending tonight making false promises about taking the trampy hos he cheats on his wife with at the Delano Super Bowl afterparty to his mandated Disneyland victory celebration. So I guess I still have to give a nod of acknowledgement to the girls who spend $200 on fan gear and root for teams playing a different fucking sport for financial effort alone, and silently pray that one day someone with more credibility than me draws them a sufficiently interesting I formation. Seriously...that shit is better than finding Jesus.
"Razzy," he said patiently, trying for the thousandth time to compel me to lay off his ass about his Sundays being dedicated to the NFL instead of his hot blonde shikse girlfriend. "Football is like chess. I don't think you understand football."
"What's to understand?" I scoffed. "The most basic play involves dudes butting heads like a bunch of fucking mountain goats posturing for sexual dominance. Don't care."
"You're wrong," he said. "The most basic play is the I formation. Well, not in the West Coast offense, but for all intents and purposes, let's say it's the I formation, and let me explain it to you."
I humored him, expecting to find some inherent flaw and be able to be right on the fact that I can deconstruct almost anything on the fourfold basis of my harsh criticisms, my forceful personality, my tits, and my willingness to put out. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen. Then Benzo not only proved me wrong, he changed my life.
By the time he'd finished with the I formation, he also went through the shotgun, a variety of draw, screen, and slant plays, some basic defensive packages, and classic gimmick plays such as the flea-flicker and the hook-and-ladder. I was enthralled, and had completely forgotten about being right or complaining about his non-availability for Sunday brunch. I resolved to start watching football immediately, because not only was I wrong about it being stupid, I was deeply intrigued.
That was in December 1999, and I proceeded to not only watch all the playoffs, but damn near had a massive coronary during the Super Bowl the next January. In case you aren't up on your stats, that was Super Bowl XXXIV, in which the Tennessee Titans lost by one struggling, Kevin Dyson's-desperately-reaching yard to the St. Louis Rams. Dick Vermeil cried with joy. Steve McNair shook his head with deep sadness (as well as pain from his typical 18 different injuries). I swore vengeance against the Rams, and pledged my life and soul to Eddie George (with a clause allowing revocation of said pledge if he ever signed with the Cowboys, that I exercised in 2004).
Since then, I have become progressively more and more obsessed with NFL football. Now I do things like I did tonight: go to Super Bowl parties and impress the dudes there with my knowledge. Miss Corbutt's boyfriend, who invited me and my friends to his party, heard me trying to explain to Miss Corbutt the awesomeness of the Coors Light "Playoffs?!" commercial and going off on a tangent about the ins and outs of Jim Mora, Sr.'s illustrious press conference record, NFL head coaching politics, and family playing/coaching dynasties, and said, "Wow...you really ARE hard core."
Miss Corbutt had initially lured me to this party on the basis that there was a free buffet of fried foods, she would be there, there would be lots of "single Amherst guys" (been there and did that...in 1997), and there were many plasma screens to watch the game on. I enjoyed the fact that I was the resident girl who knows about football much more than the prospect of me doing a bunch of I-bankers from the underground DEKE house at Amherst. On account of the night before and the lethal tequila-Jaegermeister-scotch-gin-vodka-beer combo I'd imbibed, I was glad to be kicking ass at anything, so it was excellent to be a lauded-for-knowing-football bitch at a Super Bowl party.
I was rooting for the Bears, because I hate and despise the Colts, and I will until I die. I hate them even more than the Cowboys. They were the team I hated most until the Shitsburgh Stealers gave me a personal reason to hate them more, but nonetheless my anti-Colts sentiments remain true and unmitigated. This is partly because they are the Titans' AFC South rivals, and partly because I loathe Peyton and all other Mannings to the core of my being. However, since the officiating in this Super Bowl was considerably better than last year's bullshit travesty, and since the Bears basically didn't get a goddamn thing going offensively, by the end of the third quarter I accepted that I'd simply have to suffer through another year of Peyton Manning being an incorrigible asshole bolstered by a Super Bowl ring. So I went to take a piss.
There were these girls there who were decked out in head-to-toe Bears gear waiting in the bathroom line. I pegged them as serious fans, as they were wearing Bears caps, NFC champion shirts, Bears armbands, and logo orange-and-navy C's on their cheeks. I decided to be friendly and share my sympathies.
"Dudes, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a Seahawks fan, so I know how you feel. I was right where you are last year, getting dangerously close to a fugue state."
They gave me this weird, extraordinarily puzzled look that indicated I should elaborate.
"I mean, last year, I knew that the Hawks were done by this time in the game. Of course then it was because of bullshit offensive pass interference calls and ignored horse collar tackles and not the straight-up inability of Rex Grossman to convert third downs, but still, I feel you."
"Oh..." The head girl suddenly got where I was coming from. "We're not really Bears fans, hon. We just like dressing up."
"Um..." I said.
"Yeah," her friend chimed in. "We called the Chicago Sports Authority and had them FedEx us these Cubs temporary tattoos!"
She pointed proudly to the C on her face. I didn't mean to be an asshole, but I couldn't help it.
"Uh, I think you mean the Bears. The Cubs are a baseball team," I said as kindly as I could.
She and her friend gave each other a what-the-fuck-is-up-with-this-bitch?-there-are-hedge-fund-owners-to-hit-on-here look.
"Whatever!" she said cheerfully, and went back to chatting about the boys they liked. Mercifully the bathroom became available at that moment. While I was pissing, I wondered what those girls would do if I forced their "Cubs"-fan asses to check out an I formation and appreciate the depth of the culture they are appropriating for frivolous dress-up. Probably think I'm even more bizarre than they already do, but I wished I could do it nonetheless. In a perfect world, it would change their lives for the better, as Benzo's Xs and Os (and not just his kisses and hugs) once changed mine. Then again, in a perfect world, the Stealers wouldn't be sitting around reminiscing about how they stole last year's Super Bowl, and Peyton Manning wouldn't be spending tonight making false promises about taking the trampy hos he cheats on his wife with at the Delano Super Bowl afterparty to his mandated Disneyland victory celebration. So I guess I still have to give a nod of acknowledgement to the girls who spend $200 on fan gear and root for teams playing a different fucking sport for financial effort alone, and silently pray that one day someone with more credibility than me draws them a sufficiently interesting I formation. Seriously...that shit is better than finding Jesus.
Labels: Jim Mora Sr., Miss Corbutt, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity, Stealers suck
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